Beth Woodburn

by Maud Petitt

  CHAPTER X.

  _DEATH._

  Christmas eve, and Beth was home for her two weeks' holidays. It wasjust after tea, and she and her father thought the parlor decidedlycosy, with the curtains drawn and the candles flaming among the hollyover the mantel-piece. It seemed all the cosier because of the stormthat raged without. The sleet was beating against the pane, and the windcame howling across the fields. Beth parted the curtains once, andpeeped out at the snow-wreaths whirling and circling round.

  "Dear! such a storm! I am glad you're not out to-night, daddy."

  Beth came back to the fire-side, and passed her father a plate offruit-cake she had made herself.

  "It's too fresh to be good, but you mustn't find any fault. Just eatevery bit of it down. Oh, Kitty, stop!"

  They had been cracking walnuts on the hearth-rug, and Beth's pet kittenwas amusing itself by scattering the shells over the carpet.

  Beth sat down on the footstool at her father's feet.

  "You look well after your fall's work, Beth; hard study doesn't seem tohurt you."

  "I believe it agrees with me, father."

  "Did you see much of Arthur while you were in Toronto, Beth? I washoping you would bring him home for the Christmas holidays."

  "No, I never saw him once."

  "Never saw him once!"

  He looked at her a little sternly.

  "Beth, what is the matter between you and Arthur?"

  Ding! The old door-bell sounded. Beth drooped her head, but the bell hadattracted her father's attention, and Aunt Prudence thrust her head intothe parlor in her unceremonious way.

  "Doctor, that Brown fellow, by the mill, is wuss, an' his wife's tookdown, too. They think he's dyin'."

  "Oh, daddy, I can't let you go out into this dreadful storm. Let me gowith you."

  "Nonsense, child! I must go. It's a matter of life and death, perhaps.Help me on with my coat, daughter, please, I've been out in worse stormsthan this."

  Beth thought her father looked so brave and noble in that big otterovercoat, and his long white beard flowing down. She opened the door forhim, and the hall light shone out into the snow. She shuddered as shesaw him staggering in the wind and sleet, then went back into theparlor. It seemed lonely there, and she went on to the kitchen, whereAunt Prudence was elbow-deep in pastry. A kitchen is always a cheerfulplace at Christmas time. Beth's fears seemed quieted, and she went backto the parlor to fix another branch of holly about a picture. Ding! Wasany one else sick, she wondered, as she went to answer the bell. Sheopened the door, and there stood Mrs. Perth! It was really she, lookingso frail and fair in her furs.

  "Why, May, dear! What are you doing out in this storm?"

  "Oh, I'm nearly half dead, Beth." She tried to laugh, but the attemptwas not exactly a success.

  Beth took her in to the fire, removed her wraps, all matted with snow,and called to Aunt Prudence for some hot tea.

  "Is your father out to-night, Beth?" asked May.

  "Yes, he went away out to the Browns'. But wherever have you been?"

  "I've been taking some Christmas things to a poor family about two milesout in the country, and I didn't think the storm so very bad when Istarted; but I'm like the Irishman with his children, I've 'more'n Iwant'--of sleet, at any rate. Walter is away to-night, you know."

  "Mr. Perth away! Where?"

  "Oh, he went to Simcoe. He has two weddings. They are friends of ours,and we didn't like to refuse. But it's mean, though," she continued,with a sweet, affected little pout; "he'll not get back till afternoon,and it's Christmas, too."

  "Oh, May dear, you'll just stay right here with us to-night, and fordinner to-morrow. Isn't that just fine!" Beth was dancing around her inchild-like glee. Mrs. Perth accepted, smiling at her pleasure; and theysat on the couch, chatting.

  "Did you say Dr. Woodburn had gone to the Browns'."

  "Yes, Mrs. Brown is sick, too."

  "Oh, isn't it dreadful? They're so poor, too. I don't believe they've adecent bed in the house."

  "Eight! There, the clock just struck. Father ought to be back. It wasonly a little after six when he went out."

  She looked anxiously at the drawn curtains, but the sleet beating harderand harder upon the pane was her only answer.

  "There he is now!" she cried, as a step entered the hall, and she rushedto meet him.

  "Oh, daddy, dear--why, father!"

  Her voice changed to wonder and fear. His overcoat was gone and heseemed a mass of ice and snow. His beard was frozen together; his breathcame with a thick, husky, sound, and he looked so pale and exhausted.She led him to the fire, and began removing his icy garments. She wastoo frightened to be of much use, but May's thoughtful self was flittingquietly around, preparing a hot drink and seeing that the bed was ready.He could not speak for a few minutes, and then it was only brokenly.

  "Poor creatures! She had nothing over her but a thin quilt, and the snowblowing through the cracks; and I just took off my coat--and put it overher. I thought I could stand it."

  Beth understood it now. He had driven home, all that long way, facingthe storm, after taking off his warm fur overcoat, and he was justrecovering from a severe cough, too. She trembled for its effect uponhim. It went to her heart to hear his husky breathing as he sat theretrembling before the fire. They got him to bed soon, and Aunt Prudencetramped through the storm for Dr. Mackay, the young doctor who hadstarted up on the other side of the town. He came at once, and lookedgrave after he had made a careful examination. There had been sometrouble with the heart setting in, and the excitement of his adventurein the storm had aggravated it. Beth remembered his having trouble ofthat sort once before, and she thought she read danger in Dr. Mackay'sface.

  That was a long, strange night to Beth as she sat there alone by herfather's bedside. He did not sleep, his breathing seemed so difficult.She had never seen him look like that before--so weak and helpless, hissilvery hair falling back from his brow, his cheeks flushed, but notwith health. He said nothing, but he looked at her with a pitying looksometimes. What did it all mean? Where would it end? She gave him hismedicine from hour to hour. The sleet beat on the window and the heavyticking of the clock in the intervals of the storm sounded likeapproaching footsteps. The wind roared, and the old shutter creakeduneasily. The husky breathing continued by her side and the hours grewlonger. Oh, for the morning! What would the morrow bring? She hadpromised May to awaken her at three o'clock, but she looked so serenesleeping with a smile on her lips, that Beth only kissed her softly andwent back to her place. Her father had fallen asleep, and it was an hourlater that she heard a gentle step beside her, and May looked at herreproachfully. She went to her room and left May to watch. There was abox on her table that her father had left before he went out thatevening, and then she remembered that it was Christmas morning.Christmas morning! There was a handsome leather-bound Bible and a goldwatch with a tiny diamond set in the back. She had a choked feeling asshe lay down, but she was so exhausted she soon slept. It was late inthe morning when she awoke, and May did not tell her of her father'sfainting spell. Aunt Prudence was to sit up that night. The dear oldhousekeeper! How kind she was, Beth thought. She had often been amusedat the quaint, old-fashioned creature. But she was a kind old soul, inspite of her occasional sharp words.

  Dr. Woodburn continued about the same all the following day, saving thathe slept more. The next day was Sunday, and Beth slept a little in theafternoon. When she awakened she heard Dr. Mackay going down the hall,and May came in to take her in her arms and kiss her. She sat down onthe bed beside Beth, with tears in her beautiful eyes.

  "Beth, your father has been such a good man. He has done so much! If Godshould call him home to his reward, would you--would you refuse to givehim up?"

  Beth laid her head on May's shoulder, sobbing.

  "Oh, May--is it--death?" she asked, in a hoarse whisper.

  "I fear so, dear."

  Beth wept long, and May let her grief have its way for a while, thendrew her near
er to her heart.

  "If Jesus comes for him, will you say 'no'?"

  "His will be done," she answered, when she grew calmer.

  The next day lawyer Graham came and stayed with Dr. Woodburn some time,and Beth knew that all hope was past, but she wore a cheerful smile inher father's presence during the few days that followed--bright winterdays, with sunshine and deep snow. The jingle of sleigh-bells and thesound of merry voices passed in the street below as she listened to thelabored breathing at her side. It was the last day of the year that heraised his hand and smoothed her hair in his old-time way.

  "Beth, I am going home. You have been a good daughter--my one greatjoy. God bless you, my child." He paused a moment. "You will have toteach, and I think you had better go back to college soon. You'll notmiss me so much when you're working."

  Beth pressed back her tears as she kissed him silently, and he soon fellasleep. She went to the window and looked out on it all--the clear, coldnight sky with its myriads of stars, the brightly lighted windows andthe snow-covered roofs of the town on the hill-slope, and the Erie, afrozen line of ice in the distant moonlight. The town seemed unusuallybright with lights, for it was the gay season of the year. And, oh, ifshe but dared to give vent to that sob rising in her throat! She turnedto the sleeper again; a little later he opened his eyes with a brightsmile.

  "In the everlasting arms," he whispered faintly, then pointed to apicture of Arthur on the table. Beth brought it to him. He looked at ittenderly, then gave it back to her. He tried to say something, and shebent over him to catch the words, but all was silent there; his eyeswere closed, his lips set in a smile. Her head sank upon his breast."Papa!" she cried.

  No answer, not even the sound of heartbeats. There was a noiseless stepat her side, and she fell back, unconscious, into May's arms. When shecame to again she was in her own room, and Mr. Perth was by her side.Then the sense of her loss swept over her, and he let her grief have itsway for a while.

  "My child," he said at last, bending over her. How those two wordssoothed her! He talked to her tenderly for a little while, and shelooked much calmer when May came back.

  But the strain had been too much for her, and she was quite ill all thenext day. She lay listening to the strange footsteps coming and going inthe halls, for everyone came to take a last look at one whom all lovedand honored. There was the old woman whom he had helped and encouraged,hobbling on her cane to give him a last look and blessing; there was thepoor man whose children he had attended free of charge, the hand ofwhose dying boy he had held; there was the little ragged girl, wholooked up through her tears and said, "He was good to me." Then came thesaddest moment Beth had ever known, when they led her down for the lasttime to his side. She scarcely saw the crowded room, the flowers thatwere strewn everywhere.

  It was all over. The last words were said, and they led her out to thecarriage. The sun was low in the west that afternoon when the Perthstook her to the parsonage--"home to the parsonage," as she always saidafter that. Aunt Prudence came to bid her good-bye before she went awayto live with her married son, and Beth never realized before how muchshe loved the dear old creature who had watched over her from herchildhood. Just once before she returned to college she went back tolook at the old home, with its shutters closed and the snow-drifts onits walks. She had thought her future was to be spent there, and nowwhere would her path be guided?

  "Thou knowest, Lord," she said faintly.